


Carve a Place for Me

by RebrandedBard



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Fluff, Happy Ending, Headaches & Migraines, Light Angst, M/M, Maximum Dumbass, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Tree Carving, With upfront beta for once lmao, initial carving, name carving, rated T for subtle sexual pun
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-11
Updated: 2021-02-11
Packaged: 2021-03-18 06:14:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29363826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RebrandedBard/pseuds/RebrandedBard
Summary: On his way to fetch a bit of willow bark for Jaskier's headache, Geralt comes upon an empty heart carved on the willow tree. Well, it's such an old carving, surely nobody would mind if he added a couple letters to it. You'd think after all these years he'd know how to spell Jaskier's fucking name.Alt; Geralt carves G+Y in a tree, mistakingly thinking 'Jaskier' is spelled with a Y. Jaskier has feelings about it.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 46
Kudos: 308





	Carve a Place for Me

Just another stroke and he’d be done. Geralt wiped the stuck curl of wood from his knife, blowing carefully at the carving he’d made. A puff of sawdust billowed away. He tilted his head, a subtle smile on his lips as he admired his work.

An hour ago, he’d gone hunting for the willow to collect its bark; Jaskier had been complaining of a headache all morning, when he could find it in him _to_ complain. When he had them, the headaches weren’t terribly strong, and they never lasted more than an hour or two, but this one was a particular case. A bit of willow bark was the best remedy. Usually they might go to a healer or apothecary in town, but the nearest town was three days’ ride from their camp.

It was lucky Geralt had spotted the willow when they’d stopped to water Roach. He’d left Jaskier at camp, instructed him to rest, and promised to return shortly with the remedy. And he _had_ mean to return shortly, but it was such a fine day: he found himself walking at a more leisurely pace than anticipated, unconsciously done. The summer air was crisp, sweetened by wildflowers and the fresh waters of the river. There was a lake upon it with a fine current. It made Geralt wish for a rowboat. It would be a fine thing to row out onto the lake and enjoy the sun.

The good weather had him in high spirits, and by the time he’d come upon the willow, his walk had become something of a saunter. Once Jaskier’s headache was gone, he thought that perhaps they might go fishing. He ducked under the drooping curtain of branches and pulled out his knife. As he looked for a clean spot of bark to pry up, he happened upon a carving. It was an old heart left by some lovers long ago.

It was just the sort of thing Jaskier would sigh over. Lately, Geralt had been giving more and more thought to the sorts of things that Jaskier would like.

He traced the edge of the carving. The middle was left blank, no initials to mark who had made it. Jaskier would invent a story, of course. Perhaps a young lad had made the heart for his love, wishing to carve their names together, only to find the girl of his affections had run away with his brother that very day—and so it was that the heart would stay forever barren! Geralt could hear Jaskier weave the tragic tale, could see the delicate hand thrown before his eyes in agony. He chuckled quietly to himself.

A funny thought wriggled its way from the back of his mind. It … would be a shame to let the heart stay empty. And it was really such an old carving, left untouched for decades, possibly as many years as fifty. It was lonely, hidden away among the thick sprawl of branches. At least, that’s what Jaskier would say. Then he would beg to borrow Geralt’s knife, likely to carve some initials on a lark and bless a pair of strangers with true love, choosing his letters at random to allow destiny to fill in the holes of his whimsical plan.

When he raised his knife to the tree, Geralt’s letters were far more deliberate.

And so it was that Geralt had dawdled, his secret concealed by the willow branches, as he carved two simple letters on the old trunk:

_(G + Y)_

He finished the last stroke at the top of the _Y_ and wiped it clean. Geralt nodded in satisfaction and returned to his hunt, inspecting the bark around the other side for a good-sized piece to collect. He collected a couple pieces in case Jaskier’s headache should return later on and packed them away in his pocket. Before leaving, he stopped to inspect his work one last time, making some minor adjustments with the tip of his knife. The letters weren’t perfectly even, and he hoped at the very least to make the right-hand stroke of the _Y_ as thick as the left. He was fine with his skewed _G,_ but the other letter wanted perfection. He was so involved with his carving, he did not hear the footsteps approach.

“There you are,” Jaskier sighed. “I thought you might have come upon a monster in the lake or something, and I came to fetch the willow myself. This blasted headache feels like a cannon going off inside my skull and I can feel my damn pulse in my temples.”

Jaskier groaned and clutched at his head. “If this goes on much longer, I’m sure I’ll start seeing double. Come along, will you? I’ll _chew_ the bark raw if it’ll move things along.”

He looked up and saw Geralt staring in horror back at him, knife raised to the smooth wood. His eyes drifted to the point of the knife and the tell-tale letter beneath it.

“Oh,” he breathed, stopping in his tracks. “Is … did you carve that?”

Geralt’s eyes flickered back and forth between Jaskier and the carving. This was not how he’d wished to make things known. A cold sweat prickled the back of his neck as panic set in. “Yes,” he replied. “Found the heart. Thought it … needed something.”

Jaskier stared at the carving, his hands hovering at his sides, thumbs tracing the pads of his fingers in slow circles. “G and Y,” he said. There was something odd about his voice. Strained. And Geralt doubted it had anything to do with the pain of his headache.

Geralt nodded. “Is that alright?” he asked quietly. He stroked the edge of the knife with this thumb, trying to avoid looking Jaskier in the eye. The next instant, he was startled by Jaskier’s indignant laugh.

“I’m hardly the one you should be asking for permission,” Jaskier said. “Ridiculous, the very notion! Carve what you like. But you might have at least brought me the bark first and left me out of this. I’ve already got one headache to deal with; I hardly need another, and we’re _both_ bound to end up with one when you’re in that brooding, love-sick mood. I’m in no fit state to deal with this nonsense today.” He turned on his heel and began to trudge away.

Geralt groaned and pinched his brow. “Shit,” he grumbled. He tucked his knife in his belt and hurried after him. “Jaskier, wait.”

“I spent a good hour waiting with a herd of wild oxen stomping around my brain only to find out my agony was only an afterthought to your silly, moon-eyed daydreaming. I can see you’re much too busy at present. I’ll find my own tree, thank you.”

He hissed, rubbing at his temples again. “Fuck, it hurts,” he muttered. He squeezed his eyes tight. In a moment, he was crouching on the ground, holding his head in his hands. “Fuck,” he whispered. “I was not ready for this today.”

Geralt caught up to him and knelt at his side. “Jaskier, please. I’ve got the willow bark. Let’s just go back to camp, we’ll brew the remedy, and we can forget all about the tree.” A heavy lump settled in the pit of his stomach. He hadn’t given a great deal of thought to how Jaskier would respond to his feelings, but of all the responses he envisioned, that had not been among them. It was passive, as if his feelings were nothing but an annoyance. But the idea that Jaskier would _mock_ them outright, call them silly—it was something he would never have considered.

“I’ll scratch the letters out if they offend you,” Geralt offered. “I’ll _burn_ them.”

Jaskier flapped a hand at him, not bothering to look up. “Forget it. It’s none of my business.”

“But it is. That’s the whole point, isn’t it?”

Jaskier scoffed. He uncurled, scrubbing his palms to his eyes. He was crying, Geralt saw. “And how,” Jaskier asked, “is it any of my business whether you love her? What? Will you ask me to for advice how to woo her? Trust me, I think you’ve done a bang-up job without my help. Loud as the banging of her headboard.”

Geralt frowned. “What are you talking about?”

“Please, the two of you are like animals when your paths cross. I remember very clearly what happened last time you two came together—or _came_ together, as it were.”

“The two of who?”

“You and Yennefer! Who the fuck else? Gods above, Geralt, I may be the one with a headache, but my brain’s still functioning twice as fast as yours. Keep up.”

Geralt looked back toward the tree. He looked at Jaskier. At once, he understood. “The _Y_ isn’t for Yennefer,” he said.

Jaskier put a hand over his eyes and sighed. “I’m not stupid Geralt. Who else do you know whose name begins with a _Y?”_

“You.”

Jaskier tilted his hand up to look at him. “‘You’ like the word? That’s nonsense.”

“You as in _you,_ Jaskier,” Geralt clarified. He poked Jaskier’s chest gently with one finger.

“Me? That’s even more nonsensical. I don’t have a _Y_ in my name.” He raised a finger to draw in the air, spelling his name out loud as he did. _“J-A-S-K-I-E-R._ Jaskier,” he huffed. “Didn’t think I had to spell that one out … for … you.”

Jaskier’s hand drifted down to the grass. He tilted his head, gaping at Geralt in disbelief. “Wait a moment. Did you honestly think my name was spelled with a _Y_ in front all these years?”

Geralt turned his head away, hands dropped to his knees. He cleared his throat and said nothing.

“Wait. No, no, now wait just one moment. You carved that letter for _me._ You carved _G_ and _Y_ together,” he said, realization dawning. “You carved those letters inside a little heart, and that can only have one possible meaning any way you look at it. There’s no other way _to_ look at it.”

“If you keep prattling on, your headache will get worse,” Geralt warned. The odd lump was rising and by now had come to rest in his throat. It had become something else as he listened to the change in Jaskier’s tone. It felt rather a bit like hope.

Jaskier shuffled over to force Geralt to look at him. “Hey,” he said. He put a nervous hand on Geralt’s wrist. “Hey, Geralt?” he asked. “Do you … harbour certain, ah, amorous-type feel—that is—is it possible you might have affections for me of a certain … romantic-adjacent variety?”

Geralt couldn’t help it. He snorted.

“Are you asking if I love you?”

Jaskier’s face turned red frighteningly fast. “Well, perhaps not _love,_ exactly. I wouldn’t want to presume, assume, or otherwise put words in your mouth that have no business being there except in the most fantastic circumstances, namely in the hours between midnight and early morning. Courtesy of Nod,” he rambled. “That is to say, when I’m dreaming wildly and under the influence of a most seductive sleep, during which I have no say whatsoever in what little scenes my subconscious might supply. Not so say that I _never_ dream of such things in the light of day, but I’ve always had rather a fear of you witchers having some intuition or touch of psychic abili—”

Geralt shut him up with a quick, light kiss, pulling away with a smile.

Jaskier swallowed, then cleared his throat. “Ah. That’s … well, that felt wonderful.”

“How’s your head?” Geralt asked.

“Honestly, it’s getting worse as I try to process the enormity of all that’s just been revealed,” he answered. “My entire view of the world and its workings has just crumbled ever-so deliciously before my very eyes. I’ve had an emotional flip-flop from two extremes, desolate to euphoric. If I faint from all the blood rushing to my head, you have full permission to let my lie.”

Geralt stood and helped Jaskier to his wobbling feet. “Or I could get you back to camp, brew up a cup of willow, and we can talk after you’ve had an hour of rest,” he suggested.

“Would it be too soon and bold of me to beg to be carried there in your arms?” Jaskier asked.

“Hm. How much pain are you in?”

“Oh, excruciating. I can hardly stand on my own two legs.”

Geralt chuckled. “Then I suppose I might just this once,” he said. He reached under Jaskier’s knees and swept him up. Jaskier whooped and clung to his neck, his words suddenly more true than before, made woozy by the movement.

“I wish I could enjoy this properly, but I fear my romantic afflictions have only served to agitate my nausea,” Jaskier groaned. He closed his eyes, taking deep breaths to push the feeling down. “Can we try this again tomorrow and you can pretend to surprise me at the tree? This is horribly muddled. I had so many other plans for this day when it finally came.”

“Does that mean you love me as well?” Geralt asked.

“I’d kiss you, but I’m afraid at any moment I may upset my stomach onto your _one_ clean shirt. Ask me again tomorrow and I’ll make grander speeches. Ask for my lips and you’ll never be rid of them! Just be sure to ask _tomorrow_ when I’m in the proper state to do it.”

And, to his everlasting joy, Geralt did.

**Author's Note:**

> Ah, our favorite himbo, at it again. God he's so stupid. I love it.


End file.
